


Escape from Fort 441

by sea_beasty



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_beasty/pseuds/sea_beasty
Summary: Kidnapped from their home city of Pendari, five teenagers are put to work in a hostel on the remote mining world of Prakith. Customer service is bad at the best of times, but with dark force users amassing nearby, they must work together to escape Fort 441.
Kudos: 1





	1. The Fire

Within minutes, the city was a fireball eight miles high and six miles wide.

The gigantic cubes that made up Pendari smouldered away, expelling millions of tones of smoke and ash into the atmosphere and turning the listless midday sky charcoal grey. Windows glowed white hot in the growing darkness. Every few minutes, a piece of exterior wall exploded outward and sailed into the fields below, sending up screams from the escapees. Anyone who remained inside the city was instantly cremated as pockets of hot air were forced up from the lower levels, leaving a suddenly detonating vacuum. Spotfires rubbled away in the fields, unattended. People who managed to escape the inferno ran down spiral staircases to the planet’s surface and took shelter on the dirt paths leading between buildings. 

Dry earth wouldn’t burn, but their city did. 

Once at a safe distance, everyone simply stood around and watched their shadows lengthen behind them. An emergency response unit droned distantly but its fire-quenching foam would arrive too late. Soon, the only lights were of ships landing, their windscreens blackened with ash. 

It was chaos. The air choked with it. No one noticed another batch of refugees make their way across the space port and disappear into a shuttle.


	2. Last flight out of Pendari

Fire has a way of tapping into our ancestral reptile brains, suppressing complex thoughts and instead streamlining only base emotions—stress, anger, fear. Critical thinking takes a backseat when adrenaline floods the bloodstream and you find yourself either paralysed in place or running for the hills.

Qume ran too, but not for the hills. Her messenger bag banged against her leg in time with each footfall, the noisy lock pick and welding goggles around her neck made stealth impossible. She needn’t have worried though, because everyone she passed had the glass-eyed look of people traumatised and in pain. A baby wailed nearby and it reached her in snatches on the wind. She put her goggles on and tried to tune it out.

Qume knew she belonged in Pendari, it was a part of her, the burn of its metal exoskeleton on a hot day left an imprint on her soul as well as the skin of her palms—but she was restless in the hands of her beloved home. She started to hatch a plan of escape. But it had to happen in absolute secrecy. Her boss, her friends, her co-conspirators could not find out she was leaving the game behind, and with a sizeable severance bonus. She would never tell. She was sure it would get her killed if she did. Her escape plan was simple: find a ship belonging to a visiting trader or politician, break in, set the auto-pilot, and sit back. When the fire started, she threw her window of opportunity wide open, and ran as fast as she could to the space port.

Just as she was about to pass through the main gates, Qume veered right toward the chainlink fence. The red light on top of the gate meant security cameras were active, and she was not about to be held back by some overfed pencil-pusher watching live feeds in the sherif’s department. Instead, a three foot-long section of fence had been exposed by a rabbit hole. She dropped to her knees, drove her elbows into the dirt, and was halfway through when a wire snagged the back of her jumpsuit. She twisted around to try and free herself and got a nasty scratch for her efforts.

“Shit.”

Between her three knives, two were too short to lift and displace the fence. Her third blade was an elite foot-long piece of steel, a kame, beautiful in the firelight, and she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. She grit her teeth and lunged forward, splitting the jumpsuit from neck to waist. Once inside, Qume made for where the ships were thickest. There, a single guard remained at his post inside a toll booth meant for inbound travellers. His expression, sharpened and foreshortened by firelight, read to her as: relieved to be so far from danger, but ashamed of himself for it. She looked past the toll booth. There was a clear path to one of the largest shuttles if she stayed low and moved at a clip.

Instead, she knocked on the glass and said, “Hey. Henre, how ya’ been?”

Henre blinked fast, then slow. “You Rochester’s girl, right? Did the speeders on Acorn Avenue.”

“Sure am. Good thing Rochester’s not here right now. He’d slap that dumb hat off your head checking for loose credits.” She laughed easily, “Bet he’s probably in the treasury right now, filling his coat with as many gold ingots as he can carry before they liquify.”

“They got in the treasury?” 

She watched the cogs turn. “Oh, you didn’t know? Where do you think I’ve been all afternoon?”

She gave his back a friendly thumping.

“Beat it, Henre, while there’s still stuff worth taking.” Only now—a twinge of sadness. Wounds left by the fire, the looting, and the loss would endure long after she was gone.

As soon as Henre was out of sight, Qume took his place in the toll booth. Looking out, the ship she’d seen earlier bore the sigil of the Mining Guild, a golden wreath. The Guild dominated billions of young, nameless, metal-rich planets in the spiral arms of the galaxy, not to mention some larger, named ones. On Pendari? Qume didn’t listen to the local news much, but she’d once spied on one of their diplomatic delegations for quick stack, and they didn’t strike her as peaceful expansionists.

On the other hand—she couldn’t navigate on her own, she didn’t know how. You were hard-pressed to find a diner that would serve delinquents like her, let alone a pilot school on as remote a world as Pendari. But a Guild ship? It would have pre-programmed routes to the coordinates of every Guild-controlled world stored in its nav-computer. Lothal, Takodana, Ord Mantell, even Cloud City. She imagined touching down in a foreign spaceport, ready to bear into the crowd and loose herself in another life. The freedom she stood to gain did nothing to wash the bad taste of fear in Qume’s mouth. Hitching a ride with autocratic slavedrivers felt dangerous in the extreme. Not enough to pass up on the plan altogether, mind you.

The shuttle dropped its ramp with a hydraulic hiss, making her jump.

A man wearing scrubs and was approaching from her right, remote control in hand. He was followed by a group of teenagers wrapped in shock blankets and another five medics—the white ensembles gave it away. Perhaps the Guild brought healers in their delegation who had offered to treat the wounded as a gesture of goodwill to oil the wheels of negotiation. The group boarded amid a cloud of compressed air. When they were safely out of earshot, Qume sprinted across the blacktop. The ship’s engine hummed to life right as she reached the ramp and she rolled onboard with seconds to spare.


	3. Point of No Return

Hearing voices from the front of the ship, Qume descended a ladder into the cargo hold and took cover behind some crates. There were a _lot_ of crates for a diplomatic shuttle. Edging closer, she saw three teenagers cuffed to a handrail, a human lying unconscious on the floor, and six well-armed Guild officers, shorn of their snowy jackets. There was a great deal of yelling, followed by a wounded bellow, then silence. After a few beats, someone could be heard complaining about the temperature.

 _That didn’t sound like conventional first aid_ , thought Qume.

She recognised Fitz, a blue Twi’lek, from her stint at community school, but the human slumped at his feet had a shaggy black beard and a burgeoning bald spot—pretty distinct on the Gran homeworld, and someone she’d remember meeting. Yuuzhan, an elusive Togruta girl, cowered by Fitz’s side.

And the third prisoner? Her skin was pale, her hair a faded blonde, her eyes light grey. She was somewhere in her late teens at a casual glance, svelte and pretty, but dangerous in the way that pretty things sometimes are. What drew Qume’s attention was her expression. She didn’t seemed to have noticed the commotion, or the fact she was being held against her will. Her gaze was totally lifeless. A ghost girl.

One of the Guild officers was a four-foot blue reptile with a golden spiral for a head. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her body with shrivelled sultana hands like an old dame strutting the dairy fridge at the supermarket. At that moment, the human boy on the floor stirred. 

She saw this and said, “Oh dear. Can someone help him up?”

“Yes, Madam Castroma.” One of the officers prodded the human with the butt of his blaster. No response.

Castroma stepped over the body to get to the cockpit, ”We need to keep them contained or we risk repeating past mistakes.” Qume suddenly became aware of a knot in her gut that hadn’t been there when she first boarded.

“Uh—sorry, excuse me ma’am.” Fitz gave a little wave with his cuffed hand, “Respectfully, if you're not medics then who are you?”

The mood plummeted like a coastal shelf. The two girls sitting beside him ducked their heads. Qume held her breath. Fitz was sympathetic and understanding of other people’s problems, which made him a sucker in the schoolyard. Off-world it would get him killed.

“It speaks!” said Castroma.

“Are you diplomats? You might know my dad, he works at the embassy—”.

She held up a hand. “I represent the Mining Guild, in grateful and loyal service to His Glory, the potent and courageous governor for life, Director Emmilson. And you’ll thank us for elevating you to a life in service of our noble cause.”

One by one, the three prisoners awkwardly bowed their heads. Castroma seemed mollified, and started moving away, but Fitz had to poke the bear.

“If you’d just tell us where we’re going, I think everyone could relax a little bit.”

“Shut. Your mouth.” It was like a switch had flipped in her cornucopia-shaped head.

“Your filthy, backwater planet is being folded into a greater scheme for the future of trade in this galaxy,” she bellowed, “On Prakith, you’ll become a part of our family, and Creator help us if you disappoint me.”

Then she smiled, and it was unsettling. “Now get some rest. We arrive at daybreak.”


	4. In the hold

Through the crates, the three prisoners stared ahead blankly. The hard cement of reality had come apart like an earthquake and they had fallen through. Swallowed up by despair. Indentured servitude on a Deep Core mining world, light years from home. The noose was well and try fixed.

No. _No thank you._

At that point, Qume's appetite for freedom failed her and as she crept backward toward the bay doors, she brushed a crate with her shoulder. Ghost girl's eyes locked onto hers like a targeting missile.

 _So not totally lifeless_ , thought Qume. Defiant, she stared back and inadvertently lost her train of thought. Perhaps Ghost girl's eyes weren't grey after all, perhaps they were purple. A secret mauve hidden so deep she caught herself swimming in its icy hue. She reeled herself back to reality but her thoughts were still swirling, trying to catch up with her.

A voice broke through her reverie. "What's she staring at? Madam Castroma—!” Seconds had passed and Ghost girl was still staring, drawing a giant red arrow between her and Qume's hiding place. The adrenaline of fear and fury was like fire and ice. She scrambled backwards, tripping over her bag and grabbing the doorway for balance. A hand shot out and dragged her back into the light.

"Let me go, let me go!" The officers' shouting combined with the sound of engines firing up seemed conspiring to turn Qume absolutely feral. She flipped herself onto her back and sat up, kicking the arm holding her ankle in a vice grip. Another pair of hands grabbed her by the throat and she bit down, hard.

"Fuck!" They dragged her over to the other prisoners and cuffed her to the handrail.

"A stowaway," said Castroma. "Welcome aboard dear, have a seat."

Qume said something unrepeatable in return. There was a dull _whap_! and she stopped fighting. Fitz pressed his hand over his mouth, eyes dark with fear.

“That wasn't very nice, was it? Now, no more interruptions and we’ll get along splendidly.” With that, she and the other officers retiretired to the cockpit. Standing guard in front of the blast door separating the passengers from the prisoners was a seven-foot tall man with no chin and an Adam’s apple that made him look as if he was constantly trying to swallow a grapefruit. The appearance of a weak chin was probably enhanced by his rectangular helmet, giving his head the dimensions of a protocol droid.

Qume seethed in Castroma’s general direction, “Leathery old bitch. I’m gonna flush her out the airlock.” At that point, the human roused from unconsciousness. He had a big, stoic face and hands that could snap tree trunks.

"What's going on?"

“We are heading for a rendezvous with, and I quote verbatim, ‘the potent and courageous governor for life, Director Emmilson.’”

"Who?"  
  
"Dunno. Destination is Prakith, ETA 14 hours. These bastards are going to keep us chained up here the whole ride."

“Shhh… Keep your voice down. It's a Gank. Those creeps work for the Hutts,” said the human in a stage-whisper. 

"How can you tell?"  
  
"The mask. They take a blood oath to never remove it so their identities are protected when they assassinate the Hutts' business competitors."

“Good thing we’re not going to have any business ventures to compete with the Hutts for, after we get crushed to death in the mines," said Qume darkly.

"Don't worry. I'm going to get us out of here," he replied. He gave the cuffs a mighty, but fruitless, yank, then sat back with a folded brow. After a beat, he seemed to remember himself and turned to her once more.

“Unys Kier,” he said sternly, “Captain of the _Trebuchet_.”

She shook his proffered hand (with some difficulty, considering the manacles). “Qume. Captain of nothing.”

Then she pointed at Ghost girl, who was resting her eyes, and added, “Who’s that?”

“Pakma. She was in Mr. Vanderzwaag’s Psychology class, remember?” Qume did not remember.

At that point, Fitz knocked her shoulder amicably, and smiled.

Fitz whispered, “I heard you and De Fibo broke up.”

When they met in sophomore year, Qume was going through a season of joylessly burning her way through partners of every gender, making up for quality with quantity. A trail of exterminated hearts rubbled behind her. She loved a good make-out session and a human boy, De Fibo, was her latest victim.

“He couldn’t keep up with me.”

Fitz's eyebrows went up. “In the sack or on the street?”

“Both.” They high-fived.

Unys, who had been listening, suddenly beamed.

“You were in the speeder racket, weren’t you? Stealing and re-selling ships and droids?”

Qume lacked the grace to look sheepish. “I did a lot of stuff after I left school.”

“This is a pretty standard shuttle,” Unys pressed on, “my dad takes these apart in the shop all the time. If we can overpower these guys, tie them up and override the autopilot, maybe you could hotwire the ship and take us home!”

“That’s one ‘if’ and one ‘maybe’ too many,” replied Pakma. "Did you even see those blasters? I don’t know about you two, but I intend to survive my kidnapping.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” said Fitz mildly. At the mention of fighting, Yuuzhan came to life.


End file.
